


Around the Reflecting Pool

by raven_aorla



Series: Our Agency [9]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Canon Gay Relationship, Canon Non-Binary Character, Canon Queer Character, Discussion of Cissexism, Discussion of Homophobia, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family Issues, Fix-It, Fluff, Gen, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship, Other, Painting, Past Child Abuse, Sakura (Cherry Blossoms), Vacation, discussion of transphobia, given that their "breakup" was so traumatic, the emotional vibe between Hans and Fritz is quasi romantic but their partners are chill about it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-17
Updated: 2020-05-17
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:54:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24236851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: A few unusual people go admire some trees at the National Mall. Some of them unload a little baggage in the process.[Coda to "Short Leap to Never Was".]
Relationships: Charles d'Éon de Beaumont (1728-1810)/Peter Stephen Du Ponceau, Francesco Algarotti/Friedrich II von Preußen | Frederick the Great, Frederick the Great & Sophie of Brandenburg-Bayreuth, Friedrich II von Preußen | Frederick the Great/Hans Hermann von Katte, Hans Hermann von Katte & Everyone Else, Hans Hermann von Katte/Peter Karl Christoph von Keith
Series: Our Agency [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/585238
Comments: 7
Kudos: 9





	Around the Reflecting Pool

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mildred_of_midgard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildred_of_midgard/gifts).



> My goodness, these fics are getting more and more niche, lol.
> 
> I was planning on visiting D.C.'s cherry blossom festival this year, but a certain global event got in the way. So I sent some characters there instead.

Hans hasn’t applied a single stroke to his canvas yet. He hasn’t gotten his mix of pink right, and the crowd that has gathered on this little hill with an excellent view of the U.S. capital city’s most beautiful bloom is distracting. Some of those children should be on leashes, or possibly tranquilizers. Meanwhile, he keeps eavesdropping on his companions. The group at large has been speaking a mixture of English, German, and French depending on who is talking to whom. Thanks to no longer finding English as distressing as he used to, more than a year of practice to prepare for this vacation has brought back a lot of his old comprehension. Not every word, but the gist of most casual speech that doesn’t use too much slang. His speech is still very basic. 

“The sakura trees were a gift from Japan, right? I’m supposed to write a poem for English class and that’s not something I’m good at, so maybe I should write a haiku,” Fritz’s niece confides in Chev as they spread out a picnic cloth a few steps away. Sophia never met anyone in this group except Fritz and Francesco before insisting on tagging along this fine Saturday, but Chev’s current persona is of a trendy young lady that a teenage girl might look up to. There’s been a lot of giggling from the pair as the group has traipsed around D.C. all morning and some of the afternoon. 

“Haiku are supposed to be about nature, yeah, but maybe your teacher will think three lines of five-seven-five syllables are a bit of a cop-out.” Chev offered to be “Stephen” for Hans and Peter’s benefit, but it’s been better seeing more glimpses of Chev in their natural state. One of their natural states. Even if he sometimes misses the young man Chev initially pretended to be in order to get close to them.

Pierre, an elfin graduate student who barely looks older than Sophia, says, “Fun fact: haiku isn’t traditionally by syllable but by _on_ , which takes into account short vowels, elongated vowels, double consonants, and ‘n’. Japanese isn't paced the way English is. Plus the old masters didn't necessarily do the five-seven-five thing. It’s more about capturing a moment."

Sophia makes a thoughtful noise. “How do you know that? I thought you were studying linguistics.” 

“I’ve been studying Japanese, too, and you have to take in some culture to give a language proper context.” The boy’s off to the side, holding Chev’s purse for them, which is on the large side and well stuffed. Chev mentioned having a partner, but neither Chev nor Pierre revealed that they were, in fact, married until about two hours into today’s sightseeing when Pierre made a reference to having eloped to Las Vegas. They don’t have wedding rings and Pierre is transparent about having additional lovers, but he’s wearing a metal cast of Chev’s thumbprint as a pendant around his neck. This strikes Hans as an interesting alternate sign of possessiveness. Peter was impressed by the symbolic weight of a criminal like Chev, who relies heavily on disguise, deliberately leaving a perfect fingerprint in a very personally identifiable location. 

Peter joined Fritz and Francesco on a mission to get lunch from one of the food trucks parked around the National Mall. Hans didn’t go with them because he picked up a basic painting set from one of the National Gallery’s many lovely gift shops, and wanted to try his hand at capturing his own moment. Besides, the four-hour drive up from Williamsburg they took yesterday to get to a hotel near here hadn’t been kind to Hans’ legs, and he needs a rest after all the walking they’ve done since the moment all the attractions opened. Whenever he spends a long time in a car or plane, his legs like reminding him that they’d once been badly fractured with blunt instruments and amateurly set. He trusts Peter to know what he’d like out of whatever lunch options he finds.

“I thought you said you’re studying German, like, your comprehension is super good,” Sophia continues. She’s tired, too, from a field hockey game yesterday. Fritz said she’s a sweetheart in general but can get very angry, in a troubling way that reminds both him and her mother of their father, and an aggressive sport helps her aim that anger somewhere harmless. Hans would have enjoyed watching her play, but she'll give them a private cello concert at her house this evening. Minus Pierre and Chev, who have other plans, the rest are spending the night in Maryland. 

(It will be the first opportunity for him to see Wilhelmine after a brief and somewhat chilly encounter with her over thirty years ago. She’s been cordial, even warm, over the phone. He hopes she’ll like him in person, he truly does.)

In German, Pierre says, “Informally.” Then laughs. 

Hans properly looks at the young people, as opposed to glancing out of the corner of his eye, to make sure they’re settled. Sophia’s lying on her back and looking at her phone, possibly curating the many photos she’s taken over the past few hours. Chev and Pierre are over on one corner of the blanket, Chev’s folded-up jacket under Pierre like a cushion and Chev’s arm around his shoulders. They’re looking out at the broad reflecting pool that creates flipped doubles of all the marble monuments spaced around its edges, as well as showing off twice as many pink and white trees.

“Chev, can you help me decide on my pink? I’ve created several reddish blush tones. You have an eye for aesthetics.”

“Sure,” Chev says, tidying the folds of their pink and white knee-length dress as they slink over. Very different from how Stephen walked, partly because they’re wearing pale gray boots with slight, sensible heels instead of flat men’s shoes. They peer at the palette for a few seconds. “None of them are outright wrong. Pick one darker shade and one lighter, for contrast. That’s my advice. And don’t overthink it. You’re making happy little trees. There are no mistakes, only happy accidents.”

“Is he gonna know Bob Ross references?” Pierre asks.

“Chev sent me a link to some of his videos and suggested they might be soothing,” Hans replied. Which they are, and sometimes helpful for someone who doesn’t do landscapes often. He pushes aside his perfectionism and starts a fluid, loose outline of the reflecting pool. It’ll give him more time to contemplate the pink flowers. The white ones will also be a challenge, and the precise lighting of the somewhat cloudy day. Chev gives him an approving, “Mm,” at having begun at last, and retreats.

He’s going for a more Impressionistic approach than usual, as his time is limited. Besides, Peter’s taken enough pictures and video to have all realistic images covered and then some. Little dark dots to represent the crowd, the monuments themselves pearly smudges that only suggest their shapes. They came on this day, rather than another, for the sake of the trees.

“That’s coming along nicely,” Fritz says, approaching with an armful of grease-stained paper bags. “Peter and Francesco stopped to get shaved ice, and Peter insisted on splitting a large food order with you and wouldn’t let me carry it.”

“That’s fine. I haven’t reached a good stopping point yet.” He does pause long enough to make proper eye contact. After so many years being haunted by those eyes and wondering what happened to their owner, Hans likes drinking them in whenever he can, even if it’s over a video call. He has to cherish these opportunities to do it in person. 

Fritz also gets a subtle blush on his cheekbones when Hans does that, one that nobody who didn’t know him well would notice. It’s a delight. “I’ll go feed the children, then.”

Sophia scoffs, “Children?”

“Appreciate it while you can,” Pierre says. “I get tired of being the adult in situations.”

“I’m getting closer to thirty every minute.” Chev gets up to grab the two lunches. 

“Technically, so is everyone else under thirty who won’t die first.” Pierre gives his spouse a cheeky grin and kisses the mildly annoyed look off their face as soon as they're in reach. 

“Over here, Uncle.” Sophia’s request is in German. She makes grabby hands but stays on her back, and switches to English. “You two, get a roooooom.”

“You’re the one who wanted to join three couples on a lengthy day trip, my darling,” Fritz holds the food slightly out of reach, and says firmly, but not harshly, “You can have it when you sit rather than sprawl.”

She sits up and tears through the packaging with the enthusiasm of a growing girl who is also a student athlete. “You got tacos. I love tacos. I mean, thank you.”

“Pierre, get the hand sanitizer out of my purse and we’ll pass it around,” Chev says.

Hans has never had a taco, but he is familiar with the concept and is content to wait. There are trees to consider. He loses time until he feels Peter’s hand on his shoulder. “Just a second.”

“They have five different kinds of tiny tacos and they’re all amazing, but they won’t be as amazing when they’ve cooled down,” Peter says in an enthusiastic hush. “And this shaved ice is going to melt. It’s called tiger’s blood flavor. It’s not literally a tiger’s blood flavor. Sort of tropical? I wouldn’t let the seller tell me after she gave me a free sample and I decided I liked it. Let’s guess what it is.”

Of everyone here, Peter’s been the most gung-ho from the start. He’s over fifty and this is the first substantial traveling for pleasure he’s done in his entire life. First he didn’t have money, then after he became a more comfortable restaurant manager, the demands of his job meant he didn’t have the time. They haven’t even completed their multi-step road trip to New York City yet, and his haul of souvenirs is already substantial. Right now Peter’s wearing a dark blue “I <3 DC” hat and a rainbow “Virginia is for Lovers” shirt. He’s bought stacks of postcards from various locations to mail to his brother. Though the last one isn’t as excessive as it might sound. Heaven knows Robert could use some more cheerful things to put up around his prison cell.

(After a few glasses of wine two nights ago, Fritz asked Peter if Peter resented that Fritz had never served any prison time despite committing more crimes than Robert ever had. Peter said Fritz’s youth had been more than enough of a prison by itself. Hans held Peter particularly tightly after they went to bed, and he’d be willing to bet Francesco did the same for Fritz.)

“If they went to the effort of bleeding a magical tropical tiger, I suppose I owe it to the beast’s sacrifice,” Hans says, putting down his brush. Peter beams.

The tacos are indeed very good, and Peter talks about how excited he is to go to the Natural History museum soon and get a peek at the Hope Diamond as well as plenty of other gems and minerals. 

“I’ve been informed that they have dinosaur bones and other wonders too,” Hans says dryly, wiping his fingers with a napkin. The chorizo is his favorite, but it’s also the greasiest.

“Just don’t steal any jewels.” Fritz making a joke like that means he’s in an excellent mood. That’s sweeter than the shaved ice could ever be. 

"Getting past a major museum’s security would be too much of a hassle to be worth it in a whim," Chev adds in French, which Sophia sitting next to them doesn't know at all. She knows the general truth about her uncle's past and that Hans and Peter were once part of that life, but Chev's told everyone to keep the truth about Chev's present from her. As it is, Pierre is probably the only person here who’s heard anything specific about Chev’s escapades, other than the one that brought them all together.

Peter’s snort of surprised amusement nearly makes him inhale a sprig of cilantro. “Maybe we could discuss a purely hypothetical heist later, as an intellectual exercise.”

“Careful about time and place, love.” Hans reaches over to pluck some lettuce off Peter’s vivid new shirt.

Sophia puts her phone in her bag. “I need to go to the bathroom. I saw a public one not far from here.”

“I’ll walk you there,” Fritz says right away.

Rolling her eyes, Sophia sighs like she’s in a contest for how long she can exhale without inhaling again. “Seriously? Uncle Fritz, I’m in high school. This is a busy day full of families in broad daylight.”

“Your situation isn’t just that of an ordinary high schooler,” Fritz says, sternly. Indeed, her classmates were unlikely to have needed to flee their home continent because of their family’s underworld connections. 

On the other hand, Sophia’s frustration makes sense, as well as being obvious. She speaks slowly and deliberately, body rigid. “Jesus. Mom wouldn’t let me take the subway alone here, either. Maybe you two should, like, wrap me in bubble wrap and put me in, like, a box?”

“Young lady…”

Chev gets to their feet and says, “Let’s set all that aside. I could use a visit to the ladies’ room too, and it’ll be more comfortable for me if I have a cis girl as my buddy. Even if I’m looking very femme today, I’ve dealt with jerks in the past who made a big deal out of where someone ambiguous chooses to pee. Can you help me out, honey?”

Sophia’s expression of resentment flips into sympathy. Ultimately, she’s much more like her mother than like any of her male relatives. “Oh, I get it, oh no! That’s tough. Sure. I won’t let anyone give you any crap.”

When they’re both gone, Fritz lets out a less dramatic sigh. “Am I an unreasonable uncle?”

“As an experienced, if largely long-distance uncle, I’d say you’re an understandable one,” Francesco says, squeezing his hand. 

“Chev doesn’t like me to go places on my own, either, because of some incidents.” Pierre rubs his wrists in an odd jerking motion. Hans knows he has some sort of condition causing these sorts of erratic movements, but didn’t catch what it was and hasn’t felt like asking. Then Pierre switches from English to French. “It helps that we’ve sat down and talked about our respective fears. It’s made me agree to things I’d bristle at otherwise, like a GPS tracker attached to my keychain. Don’t even think about it, Fritz, she’ll hate you. The tracker, I mean. Think about the talking about respective fears. Which means listen to hers, too.”

Hans finds the concept of the tracker alarming, but Pierre is clearly content, so it’s not his business to comment. “That’s not bad advice. Do your best, Fritz. You never expected to have to be so much of a father as well as an uncle, and that’s not easy for anyone, even if you had a better role model.” He gives Fritz a pat on the shoulder on his way back to his easel. Fritz looks up and smiles at him. There’s something bright but fragile in that smile. It’s appropriate for today, a celebration of the fragile and bright. 

The painting is coming easier now, but it’s taking time. The group settles on a plan where Hans can keep working for a bit longer while everyone else goes for a blossom-lined stroll. Then they’ll circle back and all go to the next museum together. Hans doesn’t want to miss out on either the exhibits or seeing Peter in his yearning reformed magpie mode.

Sophia, however, insists on staying behind “to look after everyone’s stuff while Hans is distracted”. He knows the ploy for what it is, but lets her approach him in her own time. 

It's two detailed trees before Sophia gets close enough to talk to him quietly. "Can I ask you something? You don't have to stop painting."

"I'm only continuing rather than giving you my full attention for the sake of efficiency," Hans assures her. "And yes."

"My mom and uncle didn't really tell me much about you. They said you and Uncle Fritz used to be in love when my grandfather was still alive, and you had to run away to Switzerland to, uh, escape my grandfather's wrath when he found out. That's it."

Hans adds a few hints of birds, his hand slightly less steady now. "Accurate."

Sophia's tone edges into frustration. "But there's a big gap in that story. They keep things from me like I'm still a kid. Some of it I get. I realize it's too risky to tell me much about what Uncle Fritz got up to before he reformed. I don't want to know a lot about that anyway. Other times, it makes me feel like they think I'm immature, or, or, or dumb, like when my parents told me they weren't fighting but I knew they were."

A group of children pass by, all wearing matching tees saying they are on a church-sponsored trip. There's something pleasantly duckling-esque about them, but the hideous tennis ball shade of the shirts is definitely not making it into the picture. One of the ways in which a landscape painting can fulfill a niche that photography does not. 

Telling Sophia that her feelings are inaccurate doesn’t seem right, so Hans simply waits for her to continue. She says carefully, “If Uncle Fritz had known you were alive and okay all this time, he would have run after you the moment he could. But clearly, he didn’t. I’ve heard you two catching up with each other all day. Years and years of stuff to tell each other. On the other hand, if he hadn’t known you were okay, he wouldn’t have forgiven you for not telling him. He’d hate you forever. Did you lose touch by accident? Or...”

“Peter saved me from your grandfather and helped me go into hiding. Unable to catch us, your grandfather cut his losses and simply told your uncle that I was dead. It stayed like that until Francesco, being a wonderful, supportive partner to Fritz, tried to find where my remains had ended up so he could mourn me properly. We all ended up getting in touch again instead.” Hans turned and gave her a small smile to show her that he wasn’t overly distressed by her question. He didn’t want her to feel guilty about this. He also didn’t want to include Robert in his explanation because his situation was more sensitive and he couldn’t speak for himself right now. Meanwhile, Chev’s involvement in tracking down Hans was work-related and therefore secret from anyone who wasn’t directly part of the case. (Or Pierre, it seemed. Spousal privilege? Was that the reason for their quick and secretive wedding? Hans could understand being desperate for someone to confide in.)

“That first and last parts were really romantic and that second part is really horrible,” Sophia says with a hand partway over her mouth. “I should have guessed. Mom’s favorite ‘funny’ story is the time her father got punched in the face so hard he got a nosebleed but couldn’t retaliate. I suppose I should grin and bear it when I feel like Uncle Fritz is smothering me, huh?”

“No. No. No, you shouldn’t. Understanding why someone does something doesn’t mean accepting it. It means knowing how to handle it properly.” Hans puts down the brush and turns to give her his full attention. She looks startled. “Your uncle is the sort of person who will absolutely die for the few people he loves, no questions asked. He’s _not_ the sort of person who is always easy to live with. I still love him - in a different way from how I used to - and he’s always been fascinating, brilliant, brave, and charismatic. But he’s always been so afraid to lose that he tries far too hard to keep. Especially people. Like...like holding onto a balloon with both hands as hard as you can, risking popping it, instead of just holding onto the string and letting it bob along.”

“It was considerate of that balloon seller to walk by and give you a free analogy,” Sophia jokes, gesturing at the man in question, before sounding serious again. “I know he’s been through a lot. I don’t want to add to it, but I also don’t want to feel like the bad guy for disagreeing with him.”

“You’re not, and he’d better not make you feel that way. I don’t feel qualified to tell you how to stand up for yourself, but I am qualified to tell you that he is never treating you, specifically, the way he does out of a sense of superiority or a desire to control you for the sake of control. He’s having trouble seeing past his own fears. If he’s too easy on you, will he be able to protect you from everything? If he’s too hard on you, will he become the thing you need protection from?”

“Oh, God,” Sophia mumbles. 

“Don’t be cruel, but there’s no need to be passive. Call him out if you need to. It’ll work better when you remember where he’s coming from.” 

After some thought, she nods resolutely. “Thank you. That’s useful. Sorry to bother you.”

“It wasn’t a bother at all.” A few beats and she says nothing else, so he gives her another, warmer smile and returns to his art. 

The creative reverie is broken by Chev’s voice, nearly shouting at someone on the phone in English. Hans takes his eyes off the painting and sees that Chev is walking at a furious pace, face reddened. “No, fuck that, you’ve run into my own personal version of Godwin’s Law and there is no more point to this conversation. I will ignore all calls from you until I say otherwise. Nononono. FUCK YOU.” At which point they throw their phone to the ground.

Sophia sits straight up. “Whoa.”

“That doesn’t seem good,” Hans says.

“My phone’s got a super sturdy case.” Chev bends down to retrieve the phone, but instead of straightening up again, they gracefully slump onto the picnic blanket. 

This seems like a good time to put down the brush. “That’s not what I mean.”

“Give me the dignity of deliberate misunderstanding,” Chev mutters in French, then tells Sophia in English, “I had a fight with my dad. It’ll be okay. Eventually.”

“I mean, like, do any of us have dad we get along with?”

“Pierre has lovely living parents. I’m not sure what Francesco’s situation is.” Now Chev curls around their purse like it’s a stuffed animal. “Sorry if I interrupted a heart-to-heart.”

“We finished it already. You have a leaf in your hair. Do you want one?”

Chev raises an eyebrow at Sophia. “The leaf can stay for now, but I don’t need another. If you mean a heart-to-heart, no offense, but I don’t know you well enough.”

Sophia shrugs. “That’s fair. Are you going to be offended if I play Plants vs. Zombies?”

“Not at all. Much better taste than Angry Birds.” Chev switches back to French to address Hans. “Everyone else is still walking. I broke away to take the call. Should be another fifteen, twenty minutes.”

“May I ask what Godwin’s Law is?” Hans asks. 

“It states that the longer an argument continues on the Internet, the more likely someone is going to compare someone else to a Nazi, at which point the conversation usually has no point in continuing. There are a few rare instances where the comparison is legitimate, but usually it’s just name-calling.” With an explosive sigh, Chev continues, “My version is that the longer I’m in an argument with anyone who knew me before age eighteen, the more likely they are going to call me by my childhood nickname. Which is almost never acceptable. My senile grandmother gets a pass.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Hans is a mere weak mortal and is curious about what that name was. He knows better than to ask. 

“Yeah.”

It’s rather like seeing a baby porcupine: Hans wants to hold Chev while telling them nice things, but thinks it will go badly for all if he tries. Fortunately, a better option is approaching. “I think your husband is sprinting towards us.”

Chev sits up and follows the line of Hans’ pointing finger. “Look at you and your crowd-scanning skills.”

When he reaches them, Pierre drops to his knees and puts an arm around Chev’s shoulders. “Your mom texted me and said I should check on you. No other info. What’s going on, Chevy?”

“I don’t like you getting mixed up in my parent-child drama. It’s bad enough that you keep having to play peacemaker on Thanksgiving.” 

“Did your dad deadname you again because you were restating your boundaries and he couldn’t handle that?” At the odd word “deadname”, Pierre’s pleasant face momentarily twists into a scowl. 

Chev just sort of burrows into Pierre’s chest while making grumbling noises. Pierre rubs their back and gets the leaf out of their hair. 

“I should probably put the easel and canvas and paints in the car for safekeeping before we go to the museum,” Hans says, presenting a truthful opening for Chev if they choose.

After deciphering Hans’ ulterior motive, Chev nods and says, “There’s some stuff in my purse I’m tired of carrying, so maybe I’ll deposit it in the car now and grab it before we all part ways later. Pierre, can you keep Sophia company so Fritz doesn’t get upset at us?”

“Are you talking about me?” Sophia asks. 

Pierre explains, then takes a peek at her phone screen and advises her to plant more sunflowers. Hans doesn’t know how this would help with zombies, but planting more sunflowers is rarely a bad idea. Chev gives Pierre a kiss and they exchange a few whispers. 

A final few photos for reference will compensate for having to finish the painting elsewhere. Hans gets a good panorama shot to cap it all off, and accepts Chev’s help in packing up, though he doesn’t accept any help with carrying.

“I know I’m lucky that my parents are decent people and that I have a relationship with them at all,” Chev says, nearly a minute into walking in silence.

Their current path is lined with cherry blossom trees on one side and parked tour buses on the other. Hans takes in the visual details of both, for possible inclusion. “I’ve had both my legs broken. I was still capable of being concerned and sympathetic when Peter sprained his ankle.”

“Touche.” Chev daintily steps over the ant festival that has formed to celebrate a fallen pizza slice. Hans hasn’t gotten over how differently Chev walks, depending on how they want to be perceived. How every note, gesture, and aspect of behavior seems to run on seamless autopilot. “I’ve put a lot of work into having family Thanksgivings and Christmases that are close to an average level of dysfunctional. They never hated me. Nothing as simple as that. After I ran away from home, they mostly realized how much their good intentions were hurting me. Mostly.”

“I won’t press you for any details that you don’t want to share, but if there’s something you want to share but fear me judging you, or mocking you, or whatever you might be afraid of, you don’t need to be afraid of that.” 

They are entering the paid parking garage before Chev says softly, “A part of me wishes you and Peter had been my parents. Not that I would have necessarily wanted to grow up in Switzerland, but if you two could have been transplanted over here, I guess. It’s dumb. ”

It takes a moment before Hans remembers how to keep moving forward. "I’m flattered, but I’m not sure we’d be good candidates.” He’s never wanted children, though he enjoys their company on the rare occasions he interacts with them directly. He’d try to do right by any who somehow fell into his life. 

Chev’s pace has slowed, but not stopped. They don’t look at Hans as the pair descend into the cool, cement-clad dimness. “Let’s say you had a child who the doctors said had a harmless deformity, from a health perspective. From a social perspective, it could be an issue. Could be. There are corrective surgeries available. They won’t completely make the child “normal”, but the abnormality will be less obvious. Let’s say you put the child through the first surgery, and afterwards, the child cries and begs that there be no more. What do you do?”

“Apologize for the first one and cancel all further appointments,” Hans says. “Are you saying you persist in maintaining ties with parents who chose any other option?”

Chev laughs weakly. “I’m going to give you a hug after we’ve squared everything away, if I may. By which I mean our physical things. If I were speaking metaphorically, you’d be waiting a long time for that hug.”

“Wait, do you have a key?” The thing is, Chev and Pierre took the subway here. Francesco’s silver hybrid Toyota only seats four comfortably. Five in a pinch. Francesco, Fritz, Hans, and Peter are using it for their big road trip and picked up Sophia this morning from the friend’s house where she’d slept over last night. Wilhelmine doesn’t allow Sophia to take public transportation alone unless you count the school bus, which must be annoying for the poor girl, though Hans understands why. 

“No, but I do have permission. I’d appreciate if you looked away for the sake of deniability if an authority figure ever asks if you’ve seen me break into a car.” Chev flashes a wicked grin. 

Hans snorts and looks away, thinking of the times Peter has helped neighbors who’ve locked themselves out of their homes, but refused to let them see the method and possibly encourage a crime spree. _With great power comes great responsibility!_ The only way Hans knows to break into a car is a very unsubtle smash-and-grab in order to drag an injured person out. 

Whatever Chev does, the alarm doesn’t go off. Hans stashes his painting and supplies in the trunk and takes a few cool sips of water from an insulated flask he’d left behind. Chev’s making a neat pile on the driver’s seat. They explain, “This way there’s no way my kit will be forgotten. There’s nothing anyone would want to steal.”

Closing the trunk, Hans walks over and sees that Chev has removed an entire alternate outfit from their purse. Now it makes sense why they’d been carrying a fairly large cross-body bag rather than a little handbag. The pile is made up of basketball shorts, a pair of navy blue flip-flop shoes in a plastic bag, and a sleeveless t-shirt with a big V with a pair of crossed swords underneath that proclaims love for “the Cavaliers”. Also a pack of makeup remover wipes.

“In case you felt like a change?” Hans guesses.

“Mm. It was getting heavy,” Chev says. They close the car door again and turn to give Hans the promised hug. It’s tighter than Hans expected, and reminds him that Chev is not, in fact, very tall, despite how good they are at acting like it. 

“Ohoho, now I see the real reason why you two sneaked away!” Peter exclaims playfully, appearing from behind a minivan covered in bumper stickers. “Everyone else is headed for the museum, but I asked Google for a shortcut here instead. What can I say, I’m needy.”

“Yes, you take so much looking after,” Hans says drily, beckoning his partner over. 

Chev steps away from Hans and leans against the car. “I was going to talk to you two about this during your visit on the way back down from New York, but since I’m in a mood and we are more or less alone…” They wave in the general direction of a few other people looking for their cars, none of whom are in earshot if Chev uses their indoor voice.

“While Hans and I have discussed the possibility of being a tad more adventurous with the right people, darling, our affection for you is of a different kind.” Peter mouths an “ow” when Hans pokes him between the ribs for that. Even if it’s not a lie.

But Chev giggles. “And I’m sure I have nooooooo idea who the ‘right people’ are.”

“I should be more serious, sorry,” Peter says.

“It’s okay. So you know how you two said if I ever get into a bad situation near where you guys live, I could take shelter with you?” Once the couple have both nodded, Chev continues, “If you really mean it, I talked it over with Pierre, and he’s helping me translate a summary of my medical records. I, um, I don’t have what you’d call a standard body. I won’t go into detail here, but there’s a reason I’m such a chameleon. That’s information I keep close to my very freakish chest, by the way. It needs to stay that way. My life sometimes literally depends on keeping people guessing.”

“Of course,” Hans says, feeling a pang at Chev’s air of vulnerability during their speech.

“You could have tentacles down your pants and we wouldn’t give a shit,” Peter says, which gets another giggle out of Chev. “I agree that it’s a good idea for us to know how to look after you if you ever need us to.”

“At least I’m a universal receiver blood type. Something easy for once.” Chev closes their eyes for a moment, then opens them again. “I’ll give you a password protected thumb drive when you visit next week. I’ve seen and done too much to trust distance communication to stay private.”

“Are you aware that you haven’t told us your full name yet?” Not that Hans wants to pressure them, but carts before horses.

“Oh, right. I changed it to Charles-Genevieve Beaumont d’Eon when I was eighteen. I prefer _Mx._ as a title, but legally, because the government doesn’t allow for an in-between choice, it’s _Mr._ Do not call me Charlie. Ever.”

“Noted,” Hans says gently.

“Thanks. Maybe we should get going now.”

“I got you this from a fundraising stand to help the homeless,” Peter says, producing a small brown paper envelope. He takes out an enamel cherry blossom sprig. “The seller said it could either be a hair clip or a tie pin, and I thought that was perfect for you.”

“You didn’t have to.” Chev’s gone slightly pink, too, and a tentative, hopeful expression crosses their face. “Can you help me put it in my hair?”

There is no chance Chev genuinely needs assistance. All three of them know that. Peter does regardless, saying, “I used to know how to make daisy chain crowns, but even if I could resurrect the memory, I don’t think cherry blossoms work that way.”

“A friend’s daughter taught me how to make them while I was babysitting. Yes, I have been trusted to babysit, don’t look so surprised.”

Hans holds up his hands in surrender. “I wasn’t going to say anything. Do you want children?”

“No point in wanting what biology or background checks would prevent,” Chev says, shrugging one shoulder. Eyes far away. “C’mon, Pierre’s gonna cross from adorable to insufferable if he gets too worried about me.”

Peter takes Hans’ hand and they start walking towards the exit together, following Chev. “I’ve heard that family isn’t about who has your blood, but about who you’d bleed for.”

“That’s a nice thought.” Chev’s phone vibrates and they take it out of their bag. “I have a friendly...let’s say work acquaintance. He seldom gets through an assignment without seducing at least two people. That’s his modus operandi. It’s all safe and consensual as far as I know. More power to him. One time we were comparing notes, though, and he told me that he could never do things my way. Being different people, making others see what I need them to see, coming to know all about them as an unavoidable consequence. He said my way is far too intimate for him. Isn’t that funny?”

“Chev…” Hans begins, not sure what he wants to say after that. Sophia was so much simpler to reassure.

“What are you planning on seeing in New York?” Chev asks brightly, while texting.

The three of them talk of cheerful, mundane things, and reunite with the others on the steps of the grand temple that is the Smithsonian natural history museum.

“The line only looks scary; it’s really spacious inside,” Pierre tells them as soon as Chev is done kissing them almost indecently. It’s been replaced by Chev standing behind him and holding him close with both arms around his waist, chin resting on his shoulder. They’re about the same height normally, but Pierre isn’t wearing heels. 

“It’s a nice view if you look outwards,” Hans says, doing so. Peter and Francesco strike up an English conversation that Hans doesn’t feel like following. It sounds happy. Sophia seems to be engrossed in the zombie game, playing with one hand while sipping an Oreo milkshake that’s already down to the dregs. Part of him worries about the sugar rush after the shaved ice, while the other part of him worries that he’s gotten old and boring.

Part of him imagines a world in which he has considerably more right to think of her as _his_ niece, too. 

Fritz also turns to face the grassy Mall, with still some pink and white trees on view. By degrees, one of his hands makes its way down to loosely curling around Hans’ right wrist, as if he’s confirming his first love’s pulse is still going strong. “Pierre was telling us about how samurai felt kinship with sakura, because they were so bright and so brief.”

“You’d think there would be more merchandise reflecting that in the gift shops,” Hans jokes. “For men who have trouble handling being pretty.”

“I think they look like seafoam mixing with blood.” Fritz says calmly. “Is that morbid of me?”

“Maybe you’re too enthusiastic about Hans Christian Andersen’s ‘The Little Mermaid’, where she risks turning into seafoam if she fails,” Hans says. He shifts his hands so their fingers are interlaced, grateful their respective partners have given their blessing for gestures like this. 

“I do have a fondness for Andersen’s version. In the original folktales, her only chance to gain a soul is if she ends up with the prince she loves, but he added a part where she gets a chance to earn a soul by doing good deeds. I don’t care if some find it trite.” 

“I don’t think it’s trite at all,” Hans says, tracing a weathered knuckle with his thumb. 

Fritz clears his throat and turns to look at Hans. “Were you able to finish the painting to your satisfaction?”

Whatever small sorrows and sympathies are swirling around in Hans’ mind, he feels a powerful sense of contentment settle over him. For a moment. You know, those things life is made of. “Not yet, but there’s time.”

**Author's Note:**

> \- The real Wilhelmine was happy to write down a story about a time her father got punched in the face by a woman he essentially sexually harassed, and he was so embarrassed/ashamed of his behavior (FW was VERY into the sanctity of marriage) that for once someone got away with standing up to him. 
> 
> \- Hans Christian Andersen appears to have been voluntarily celibate, yet was constantly falling in unrequited love with unattainable women and a few men. Some believe this influenced the writing of "The Little Mermaid", especially an infatuation with a particular male friend of his. Famously, every step his version of the mermaid takes on land feels like walking on knife blades, yet she dances in front of the prince to please him. 
> 
> \- The University of Virginia mascot is The Cavaliers, so it's both an in-joke for Chev's historical Chevalier counterpart as well as a plausible and nondescript t-shirt for someone in their twenties to be wearing in that area. It's also a reference to this larger AU's versions of Lafayette and John Laurens, who were on the UVA fencing team at one point.


End file.
